The classroom had gone quiet.
Not completely. Papers still shifted. Chairs still creaked. But the noise had lowered enough that the professor’s attention settled fully on me.
“Why do gods give blessings to us?”
I answered honestly.
“They enjoy stories.”
A few students frowned.
Others laughed quietly under their breath.
The professor did not.
His eyes narrowed slightly. Interested.
“And what is needed to be blessed by gods?”
“To struggle.”
This time the silence stayed longer.
Theology in Illusion Tree was not treated lightly. Gods were real. Not distant concepts or symbolic beliefs. They walked. Spoke. Interfered. Entire kingdoms rose around divine favor. Entire bloodlines existed because a god decided they should.
Most answers in class were predictable.
Faith.45Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Unj9nhXNs
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Purity.
But AO taught me something else.
Gods did not care about comfort.
They cared about movement.
Conflict.
Decision.
Will.
A boring life did not attract divine attention. A stagnant person was invisible to beings that lived across centuries. Gods watched mortals the same way people watched stories unfold. Heroes, tyrants, lovers, failures, kings, traitors.
Struggle created narrative.
Narrative created meaning.
Meaning attracted gods.
The professor folded his arms.
“And if someone suffers endlessly yet receives no blessing?”
“Then the story has not reached its turning point yet.”
A murmur spread through the room.
I could feel several students staring now.
One of them raised a hand. “That sounds cruel.”
“It is cruel,” I replied.
The room quieted again.
I leaned back slightly in my seat.
“In AO...”
I stopped myself.
Wrong world.
Wrong name.
“In old records,” I corrected, “there are many examples. Gods rarely descend during peace. They appear during collapse. During war. During impossible odds. People pray most when they are desperate.”
The professor watched carefully.
“And vessels?” he asked. “What are they?”
That question lingered heavier than the others.
I knew the answer too well.
Some people were born capable of housing gods within themselves. Not metaphorically. Literally. Divine presence anchored inside mortal flesh. The stronger the vessel, the more gods they could contain.
In Arcane Odyssey, vessels ruled continents.
Kings carried pantheons.
Monsters wore divinity like armor.
And me?
I was godless.
No vessel compatibility.
No divine resonance.
No sacred bloodline.
It was one of the reasons I never became leader of House of Spiders despite serving as Vice Leader. Legitimacy mattered. Symbolism mattered.
To become sovereign of Moonlicht, another path had been needed.
Marriage.
The heir of Vainglory.
I still remember the duel.
She housed three gods.
War.45Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC35iM3iXB5
Judgement.45Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5wv9KrJlqL
Radiance.
Her aura alone bent the battlefield.
And I defeated her anyway.
Not through overwhelming power.
Through preparation.
Prediction.
Human effort refined to absurdity.
That victory united Moonlicht and Vainglory.
Two kingdoms joined not by conquest, but by acknowledgment.
The professor’s voice interrupted the memory.
“You seem familiar with the subject.”
“A little.”
“A little,” he repeated, amused.
Another student spoke up. “Professor, is it true some people can hold more than one god?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Though extremely rare.”
I looked out the window quietly.
Seven.
The Leader of House of Spiders carried seven.
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Victory.
Then he asked the next question.
“What do gods desire most from mortals?”
The classroom waited.
I answered honestly.
“Continuation.”
That caught even the professor off guard.
Not war.
Not worship.
Not faith.
Continuation.
Stories continuing beyond death.
Kingdoms surviving collapse.
Names remembered after centuries.
Legacies carried forward by others.
Gods feared irrelevance more than destruction.
That was the truth AO taught me.
The strongest gods always attached themselves to civilizations, heroes, bloodlines, movements.
Not because they loved humanity.
Because humanity remembered.
The professor slowly smiled.
Not warmly.
Interested.
“You speak like an old theologian,” he said.
“..Thank You.” I replied quietly.
Because no one seemed certain how to continue after that conversation.
The professor resumed the lecture eventually, speaking about divine contracts, sacred relics, and historical vessels recorded during the Beginning Era. But the atmosphere had changed. Students who were half asleep earlier were now paying attention.
Some looked at me with curiosity.
Others with caution.
A few with outright disbelief.
I ignored them.
My thoughts remained elsewhere.
Moonlicht.
Vainglory.
Arcane Odyssey.
And Illusion Tree.
My fingers tapped lightly against the desk.
The professor suddenly spoke again.
“One final question before dismissal.”
The room straightened slightly.
His gaze settled directly on me once more.
“If struggle attracts the gods, then what happens to those who overcome every struggle?”
A difficult question.
Not because I lacked an answer.
Because I already knew it.
“They become lonely,” I said.
The classroom fell silent again.
Even the professor stopped moving.
I continued quietly.
“At first, gods are interested in your suffering. Then your victories. Then your ambition. But eventually, if you survive long enough, people stop seeing you as human.”
Images surfaced in my mind.
The Leader of House of Spiders standing atop the walls of Moonlicht after the Third Continental War.
Seven divine auras surrounding him.
Citizens kneeling without being told.
Enemies retreating before combat even began.
A monster wearing the shape of a man.
And yet I still remembered him laughing over burnt tea during midnight strategy meetings.
I remembered him exhausted.
Bleeding.
Silent.
Human.
“The stronger someone becomes,” I continued, “the fewer people can stand beside them normally.”
The professor watched carefully.
“And gods?”
“They stay.”
Not out of kindness.
Because powerful stories are difficult to abandon halfway through.
No one spoke after that.
The bell finally rang.
Students slowly gathered their belongings, though many continued glancing in my direction while leaving the room. Conversations began quietly near the exits.
“Who even is that guy?”
“He talks like he lived through it.”
“Moonlicht?”
“Never heard of it.”
I remained seated for a few more seconds.
Then stood.
As I walked toward the hallway, the professor spoke one last time.
“Young man.”
I stopped.
He adjusted his glasses slightly.
“You speak about gods as if you do not fear them.”
I thought about it honestly before answering.
“I fear them less than people.”
That seemed to surprise him more than anything else I had said today.
Then I left the classroom.
I finally went to my room.
It had been almost three days since arriving at the academy, and somehow I had never once stepped inside. Between classes, the library, writing, and wandering through the capital, the room had become little more than an assigned location in my mind.
At the end of the hallway stood a plain door.
I had already heard how the rooms worked. The interior changed depending on who opened it. Not an illusion either. Actual spatial alteration magic. Expensive. Extremely expensive.
I gripped the handle and turned it.
The room beyond was mine.
Minimalistic.
Quiet.
Moon themed decorations lined the walls subtly enough not to feel excessive. Pale silver curtains. A dark rug embroidered with faint crescent patterns. A neatly prepared bed near the far wall. A desk. Chair. Carpet.
Simple.
Comfortable.
Lived in, despite me never entering before.
I stepped inside slowly.
On the desk sat several books, fresh quills, ink bottles, parchment stacks, and a crystal orb resting on a metal stand.
Communication device.
Announcement relay.
Student contact tool.
The academy version of a forum mixed with a message board.
Last time I checked, one of these cost around six hundred gold.
I stared at it for a moment.
Assuming every student room had one...
How much money does this place even have?
Specia Academia suddenly felt less like a school and more like a small nation pretending to be one.
I sat down by the desk and lightly touched the orb.
The surface shimmered immediately.
Messages appeared in floating text.
Class announcements.
Room assignments.
Requests for duel partners.
Complaints about cafeteria food.
Several tournament advertisements from Tyrants.
And unfortunately...
My name.
“The chantless guy.”
“Magic Bullet.”
“Classless student?”
“Did you guys see the Mythril wall?”
Someone had apparently recorded the class demonstration already.
Fast.
Too fast.
The academy information network moved almost at real world internet speed.
I leaned back in the chair.
This was dangerous.
Attention spreads faster than strength grows.
That lesson stayed true in every world.
I moved the messages aside and opened the allowance function instead.
Then paused.
...What?
I checked again.
Special Commissioned Student Monthly Allowance:45Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUXmUzXL8kl
5,000 Gold.
I stared at the number in silence.
That was enough money for an average player to survive comfortably for months.
Enough to buy advanced gear sets.
Enough to establish a small business.
Enough to register two guilds over.
What exactly did Boros write in that letter?
I suddenly understood why the guards panicked when they saw the seal.
This was not normal sponsorship.
This was investment.
I rubbed my forehead slowly.
The academy was feeding me resources, unrestricted library access, private accommodation, and political protection.
All because of a recommendation letter.
From a blacksmith in Haven's Reach.
No.
Not just a blacksmith.
The Forge Father.
A war veteran personally connected to the Headmaster.
I exhaled quietly and looked around the room again.
For the first time since entering Illusion Tree, I finally had something close to a stable base.
A room.
A desk.
Books.
Resources.
Space to think.
Back in AO, moments like this usually came before everything became complicated.
A polite knock echoed through the room just as I finished arranging the papers on the desk.
I paused for a moment and looked toward the door. I had only been inside the academy for a few days. There should not have been many people who even knew this room belonged to me yet.
When I opened it, a maid stood quietly outside.
She looked around my age, though the way she carried herself made her difficult to judge properly. Her posture was perfect, movements restrained and practiced. The maid uniform she wore was dark with silver embroidery woven along the edges, matching the quiet elegance of the academy itself. What caught my attention most, however, were her eyes.
One was silver.
The other was black.
Heterochromia.
Rare enough in reality. In Illusion Tree, probably intentional.
She lowered her head politely.
“For Special Commissioned Student Eon.”
Her tone was calm and professional. In her hands rested three boxes. Two were wrapped in velvet while the last one was matte black, darker than the others to the point it almost seemed to absorb the light around it. Each lid carried a crest pressed carefully into the surface.
I accepted them with a quiet thanks.
She bowed once more before leaving down the hallway. Even her footsteps were nearly silent.
After closing the door, I returned to the desk and examined the first velvet box. The crest belonged to Specia Academia itself, meaning this was from Headmaster Gwendyr.
Inside rested two rings atop dark silk.
The first was called the Ring of Mentality. According to the description, it nullified low level mental interference skills. Fear effects, emotional manipulation, suggestion spells and similar techniques would become ineffective against the wearer.
Useful.
The second ring interested me far more.
Ring of Incognity.
It allowed the user to hide both their level and their full name.
I stared at it for several seconds.
That was not merely equipment for comfort. It was protection against information gathering. Against observation. Against players who relied too heavily on status windows and system data.
I equipped it immediately.
My visible name shortened to simply “Eon,” while my level disappeared entirely.
Better.
The fewer people who knew I was technically Level 1, the easier my life would become.
My attention eventually shifted toward the matte black box.
The moment I recognized the crest engraved into the lid, my expression stiffened slightly.
Vatendeth.
I had researched the major bloodlines and influential native families after arriving in Illusion Tree, and the Vatendeth family appeared constantly whenever the topics of necromancy, soul studies, death rites, or funerary magic surfaced. They were ancient even by the standards of this world, powerful enough that entire regions treated them carefully.
But the family itself was not what unsettled me most.
It was the name.
Vatendeth was also the name of a god from Arcane Odyssey.
And divine surnames were never carried casually.
For a bloodline to still openly bear that name meant they either earned the right to it, or no one alive possessed enough authority to question them.
I opened the box carefully.
Inside rested a teleportation scroll of extremely high quality, the kind most players would never even touch in their entire playthrough. Beside it sat a sealed letter addressed directly to me.
Not “Special Commissioned Student.”
Not “Moonlicht.”
Not even my full name.
Just:
Eon.
Simple. Direct. Intentional.
I broke the seal slowly and unfolded the parchment.
The handwriting was elegant and old fashioned, but something about the tone immediately felt familiar in a way I could not explain.
“To the one who speaks of gods without kneeling before them.”
I stopped reading briefly.
The room suddenly felt quieter.
Then I continued.
“You carry the scent of an age that should not exist within this world.”
My grip tightened unconsciously around the paper.
What?
“You have drawn the attention of our household.”
“Should curiosity outweigh caution, use the enclosed scroll.”
“You will be received.”
There was no signature.
Only the crest beneath the final line.
A black sun surrounded by skeletal wings.
Vatendeth.
I leaned back slowly into the chair and reread the letter in silence.
This was troublesome.
Not because it sounded threatening. In some ways that would have been easier.
This was worse.
Political.
Families like the Vatendeths did not send personal invitations to random students, especially not ancient noble houses tied so closely to gods and necromancy. More than that, the wording of the letter bothered me deeply.
The orb on my desk suddenly lit up with a soft silver glow.
For a moment I simply watched it, wondering if it functioned like a notification system. Then lines of text slowly formed above its surface, displaying my assigned schedule for the academy.
Most of the classes were marked as optional. Magic Theory, Theology, Historical Studies, Arcane Structures, Political Philosophy, Rune Engineering and several others I had not even heard of before.
Only one class was marked as mandatory.
Rhaka’s Martial Arts.
Makes sense.
That was the entire reason Boros sent me here in the first place.
I leaned back slightly in the chair and stared at the floating schedule. Compared to the rest of the academy, the martial classes seemed almost primitive at first glance. No grand theories. No divine studies. No ancient mysteries hidden beneath dusty pages.
Just combat.
Movement.
Discipline.
And pain.
Honestly, it was probably the class I needed most.
Until now, almost every fight I had won in Illusion Tree came from experience carried over from Arcane Odyssey. Positioning. Timing. Reading intent. Even my fighting habits were still influenced by my years as an Arch Mage. Boros noticed it immediately during our first spar.
“You fight like a mage.”
He was right.
Even unarmed, I kept distance instinctively. I observed before committing. My movements were efficient, but they lacked the grounded aggression of an actual martial artist. I fought like someone expecting spells to exist between exchanges.
But fists were different.
A real close range fighter could not hesitate.
The orb dimmed slightly before displaying the class location.
Western Combat Hall.
6:00 AM.
I stared at the time for several seconds.
So this academy believes in suffering too.
ns216.73.217.54da2
and then Add to home screen.